


The Resistance

by ShiningFrost



Category: Persona 5
Genre: Alternate Universe - Pacific Rim Fusion, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, F/F, F/M, Gratuitous Appearances from Characters throughout the Personaverse, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-14
Updated: 2018-12-14
Packaged: 2019-09-16 20:01:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,063
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16960590
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ShiningFrost/pseuds/ShiningFrost
Summary: When a devastating kaiju attack leaves Tokyo desperate for jaeger pilots, Futaba is proud to answer the call to arms.She just wishes her drift compatible co-pilot wasn’t such a dumbass.





	The Resistance

**Author's Note:**

> I’ve been writing scenes for a Yutaba Pacific Rim AU when I’ve been stuck on Essence. Then I realized I had a bunch of scenes so I might as well outline a plot and make a fic out of it.
> 
> For those who haven’t seen Pacific Rim but are desperate enough for Yutaba content to read this anyways, the basic gist is giant monsters called kaiju are terrorizing the world. Pilots man giant robots called jaegers to fight them. Jaegers require two pilots, and these pilots must be drift-compatible (i.e. merge their consciousness and perform a sort of mind-meld together) to control the jaeger.

A week after the largest kaiju raid yet, the dead still lined Tokyo’s streets. The lucky corpses remained intact, with mere gash wounds or crushed bones.

The unlucky ones were ripped apart, pieces strewn across Japan by the monsoon winds. Their families and friends would wonder what happened to their dear Chiyo or their precious Heisuke. The odds of survival were less than beating a supercomputer at chess, but without a body as proof, they would hope.

A cleaning crew pushed a cart loaded with bodies. Futaba paused to let them pass. She didn’t recognize the faces on the corpses, but the positive side of having few friends was it didn’t take long to account for them. Sojiro, check. Akira, check. They were safe.

But which of her online contacts, people she never met but whose friendships she treasured, would be silenced forever? Maya hadn’t logged in since the attack. Sunset577, usually quick to respond, never answered her request to look over her code…

Futaba swallowed and continued forward. Her commute was longer now after a kaiju had slammed into the subway tunnel between Shibuya and Yongenjaya. Walking the last stretch home was a small price to pay, because at least that kaiju had been dead. She’d had nightmares of the jaeger being too late, of the kaiju reaching her family.

What was Japan - the world - going to do? Seventy-two pilots, the bulk of the international soldiers manning the jaegers, dead.

Futaba had stopped paying attention to the civilian casualties. She didn’t want to know.

She also didn’t want to work, but what else could you do? You mourned for the dead, you reminded Sojiro and Akira how much you loved them in case you didn’t get a chance to say it again, and you went back to the grind because people still needed you to protect their money and financial information from hackers.

What else could you do…?

Futaba yanked a flyer from the telephone pole. The nail bounced on the sidewalk and plunged into the grass.

She’d seen recruitment posters for jaeger pilots before. She and Akira had ranked them. The best ones came from countries with long standing armies, countries with practice of manipulating patriotism to seduce civilians to join.

Japan’s ads never ranked high, but this was a decent effort. A giant robotic hand closed around a kaiju’s throat. The monster, bleeding and flailing, was pathetic next to the jaeger gleaming in the sunlight.

The scene was a lie. Battles with the kaiju were never that easy, but looking at the victorious and proud jaeger, Futaba wanted to believe it.

Futaba closed her eyes. She remembered her mother carrying her, a child, across broken glass and metal scraps on Shibuya’s streets. She remembered bawling as Wakaba stuffed cloth into her mouth to muffle the sounds, how her mother had hidden Futaba in the wreckage, how Wakaba had ran across the rubble screaming to draw the kaiju’s attention.

When she opened her eyes, she focused on the bold kanji at the top of the page.

CALL TO DUTY: TEST FOR DRIFT ABILITY.

BECOME A JAEGER PILOT FOR HOME, COUNTRY, AND ALL OF HUMANITY.

_What else could you do?_

* * *

“I wasn’t snooping!” Akira said, dropping the flyer and holding both hands up. “It swooshed in front of my face.”

Futaba wouldn’t believe anyone else, but she’d seen Akira’s luck in action. The vending machine consistently spit out an additional two sodas and a candy bar when he bought a bag of chips. He hired a maid service to clean the house after her volcano project exploded, and the maid happened to be his high school teacher who was so embarrassed she helped clean for free. When he played an arcade claw machine, he always snagged the cutest stuffed animal despite well-researched articles proving they were a scam. The little shit had everything.

Except for his parents, slain by a Category IV Leatherback.  
  
Futaba picked up the flyer and crushed it into a ball. “Why’re you even in my room?”

“You left your discs in the living room again. I was returning them to their proper spot before Morgana got his claws into them.“ He sat on her bed, lounging with a wide smile. “You gonna become a pilot? Save the world?”

Futaba flushed. She tossed the crushed paper at the wastebasket. It bounced off the rim and landed next to her chair leg.

“I - shut up,” she said, stomping on the floor. “Anything’s better than waiting around for some kaiju to squish us.”

“Remember your crush on Mitsuru? Time to win her heart. You can present her a bloody kaiju brain as a courting gift.”

Futaba growled and leaped at him. Akira caught her and pushed her back. She scrambled forward, trying to kick him, but he put a hand on her head and kept her at bay.

Damn his long arms. He wasn’t even pretending this was a physical strain.

Akira reached into his pocket with his other hand and pulled out a folded piece of paper. With a flick of his wrist, it unraveled into the same flyer she had taken.

“I’ll come with you, of course. Mitsuru’s too much of a catch to not have any competition for her hand.”

Futaba staggered backwards and landed on her bed. She folded her arms, but her anger meter deflated at Akira’s innocent expression. She matched his grin. “You are such a dick.”

Akira stuck his tongue out.

* * *

“No,” said Sojiro, crossing his arms and glaring at them as if they’ve cut Morgana’s legs off and draped them on a kite.

“You can’t legally stop us.” Akira lounged on the kitchen counter, peeling the skin off an apple with a knife without looking at it. “We pay the bills and abide the law like respectable adults.”

“I will kick you both out.”

“We’d be living at the academy anyways,” Futaba pointed out. “Cheapest rent in Tokyo.”

“I will pour boiling curry over every single one of your gaming systems.”

Futaba straightened her back (adding a full three centimeters to her height) and put her hands on her hips. He wouldn’t dare. She’d burn Leblanc down before he melted her beloved consoles, which have loyally served her for thousands of hours, into useless conglomerates of metals and plastics.

“Do that,” she said, tilting her chin up, “and I’ll dig up your entire Internet history since you first owned a computer. I’ll save the most embarrassing bits and display them on all the electronic billboards in Tokyo.”

“Of course, Futaba has far too much respect for Japan’s institutions to follow through.” Akira gave her a meaningful look, the one that said his charm stats were much higher than hers so please shut up and let him talk. Futaba would make a show later of being offended by his arrogance, even if he was correct. The last time he took charge of a conversation, they came home with thirteen pounds of free dark chocolate mint truffles and a soft bear plush with blue and white fur.

Akira sliced the apple into pieces and handed one to her and one to Sojiro. Instead of eating it, her dad squeezed it so hard he was in danger of converting it to applesauce. Futaba took a bite, chewing slowly to keep herself occupied.

“This isn’t a game, and you aren’t heroes guaranteed to make it to the end,” said Sojiro, apple juice running over his hand. “People with decades of training have died fighting the kaiju.”

He glanced at her, then looked away. Sojiro and Wakaba had gone on their second date the week before she died. Futaba took another bite of the apple, grinding the fruit with more force than necessary for smooth digestion.

“The people with the training are gone,” said Akira. “They have to be replaced, or the world is doomed.”

“Not by you. Let someone else accept this suicide mission.”

“Without pilots, we’ll all die anyways.”

Sojiro threw his apple slice on the counter untouched. “I have no hold over you. You can go. Futaba is staying.”

“Fuck you if you think I’m—“

Akira reached over, grabbed a handful of her hair, and pulled downwards. Futaba yelped and staggered, throwing her hands out to catch her balance.

“Futaba has every right to decide for herself,“ said Akira mildly. He let go of her hair. “Her bravery is a mark of how well you raised her. You can’t protect her forever.”

“That’s right,” she said. She rubbed the back of her hand and glared at Akira. His email would be added to every spam mailing list she could find.

Sojiro gritted his teeth and didn’t speak. He didn’t need to; that scowl would scare the kaiju right back into their ocean rifts. Morgana padded over and rubbed his head on Sojiro’s legs.

“The chances of us becoming pilots are slim anyways,” said Akira, like he wasn’t blessed by the seven gods of fortune to be the chosen one at everything. “Tokyo will find a dozen people, max, that can drift.”

“The CDC’s study said 0.01% of people have the potential,” said Futaba, shifting her glower from Akira to Sojiro. “And they’d never know unless they find a drift-compatible partner, which cuts the odds even more.”

“Japan is the only country with the technological infrastructure in place to mass test its civilians,” said Akira. “We owe it to the world to try. Chances are we’ll go, find out we’re nothing special, and be right back to complain about the ply of your toilet paper within a week.”

“Also, we’re going regardless of what you think,” Futaba added. Akira rolled his eyes, but she held Sojiro’s gaze.

She was a child when her mother died. Her day job didn’t pay enough to make her stand aside if she could stop another kid from becoming an orphan.

“You will video chat me daily.” Sojiro’s grimace would be a superb model for an orc race. “Miss a single one, and I’ll march to Jaeger Academy and report every bedwetting incident to General Kirijo herself.”

* * *

Futaba would have considered listening to Sojiro if she knew how many damn people would journey to Jaeger Academy. She clung to Akira as they meandered through the crowds. He stopped near a trash can, the smell enough of a barrier to have some space to themselves.

Futaba sighed and let go. Akira patted her hand.

“Good turnout,” he said.

It was as great an understatement as ‘Akira is good with women.’ Most of the gathered crowd were as young as they were, and some either had growth hormone deficiencies or planned to fib about how old they were. The age profile wasn’t surprising. Older adults with any desire to become pilots would’ve already attempted the drift test.

Futaba leaned against the wall and took out her 3DS in preparation of a long wait. Of course, Akira being Akira, people flocked to them despite their vicinity to the garbage, and her progress against the swarms of Shadows was minimal.

A pair of twins swung by to toss candy wrappers.

“I’m Arisato Minako,” said the cheerful girl. “This is my brother Minato.” She gestured towards the blue-haired boy.

“Your parents could’ve used a random name generator if they were feeling that lazy,” said Futaba.

Minako laughed, but Minato fixed her with a cold-eyed stare. Futaba shrank back.

Akira stepped in. “Cool headphones. Custom job?”

They discussed (well, Minako did. Minato hung back, silent) the sound quality between headphone brands and debated the pros and cons of Bluetooth vs wired before the twins excused themselves, citing their waiting friend.

“No way any kaiju is gonna be scarier than that kid,” grumbled Futaba. “How’s he so grumpy when his twin’s so nice?”

“Superfecundation?” suggested Akira.

Futaba snorted. She looked back at her screen and had only just pressed resume when a body flew past them.

She squeaked and dropped her 3DS. Akira reached out and caught it with one hand.

“I can’t believe you broke my disc, you useless ingrate! This was the special edition of Trial of the Dragon. I waited FOUR YEARS for its release!”

“Why’d you stuff it into my suitcase anyways!? Take care of your own shit!”

A girl in green raised her left leg up in a stance that would fit seamlessly into her best fighting games.

“Futaba here can get you a digital copy,” said Akira.

The girl paused mid-kick with the brown-haired boy cowering by the trash can. “You can?”

“I don’t - “ Futaba glared at Akira. She had no moral qualms with piracy, but she didn’t want to advertise it in a governmental facility.

In the corner of her eye, the boy mouthed something. It looked like ‘Please save my life.’

“Um,” she said. “Sure, they have decent WiFi here. What’s your email?”

The boy clasped his hands together and mouthed ‘thank you’ to her.

After they left, Futaba and Akira met a muscular man with blue hair and heavy white makeup. And a well-known detective whose autograph Futaba asked for. And an American woman born in Sumaru City.

“How are you so damn social all the time?” she asked. Futaba wanted to curl up in her bed and recharge for three days straight. Forcing continuous small talk was hell.

“Same way you have twelve conversations on three different social media platforms.” The nonstop blur of new people hadn’t fazed Akira. If anything, his smile was more genuine and his skin more glowing.

“Completely different. I can ghost them anytime if I don’t feel like chatting. Way harder to duck out when you’re face to face.”

“Silence please!”

The words, barely heard over the background noise, came from the speakers closest to her. It was ineffective against the background noise.

“SILENCE!”

The murmurs of the crowd faded.

“Everyone to attention for General Niijima Sae!”

What the hell did ‘to attention’ mean? She followed Akira’s lead - if he was wrong, he’d charm his way out of trouble - and snapped upwards, eyes facing forward.

Claps rang out throughout the atrium. Futaba joined, though she couldn’t see anything. Sojiro should’ve fed her more milk as a child.

“General Niijima has walked onto the stage,” whispered Akira.

Futaba had heard of the famous Niijima. The most secluded otaku would’ve heard of her. Sae had topped the charts of Kaiju kills with her father as her co-pilot, up until a nasty kaiju raid at Singapore killed him. She hadn’t found another drift-compatible partner yet, but because of her experience, the Pan Pacific Defense Corps had promoted her to top dog.

“Thank you for turning out to test your ability for drift-compatibility.” Each word was clear and deliberate, the words of someone practiced at giving speeches to large groups of people. It was enough to max Futaba’s jealousy meter. “We commend your bravery and willingness to sacrifice your own safety to protect that of others.”

“Before you commit, I must underline the danger of what you’re signing up for. I lost my father to the kaiju,” she continued. Her voice didn’t crack. “Many of you have also lost people close to you. If you are not willing to die to crush the kaiju, you may leave. For those willing to take the mantle of the world’s defense, step forward.”

* * *

Officials filed the crowd into orderly lines. Uniformed people with tablets went to each person and registered their name, skills, and willingness to join the PPDC even if they lacked the drift ability.

Futaba jotted down ‘coding’ and ‘yes’.

There was an energy to the air, to the people around her. Some stared at the exit with wide-eyed looks of regret, but they were in the minority. Most were chatting jubilantly to their neighbors, pumping their fists in the air and gesturing wildly.

A teenager had to be hauled away when a soldier informed him he was too young to join.

“They killed my mother!” he screamed. “I want to fight!”

“Amada Ken,” someone whispered behind her. “I used to babysit him.”

Futaba watched as the teen dug his heels in and struggled. Three people had to join the soldier before they could drag him to the helicopter loading area. There waited a small group who had decided to take up Sae’s offer to leave.

The hum of the crowd suddenly turned into an echoing gasp. Futaba stood on her tip-toes to see the source of the commotion, then jabbed Akira in the ribs.

“Ow.”

“It’s them!” she squealed.

She pointed, but she didn’t need to bother. Akira could’ve followed the fingers of a dozen other recruits. Every head swiveled towards the most decorated Jaeger pilots alive, Mitsuru Kirijo and Akihiko Sanada. In their jaeger  _Shinjiro,_ they held the record for most kaiju kills at seventeen.

Mitsuru’s red hair flew in the wind. Futaba tucked a strand of her own hair behind her ear. She first attempted to color her hair with a tube of red dye shortly after the journalist Ohya broadcasted Shinjiro’s fourth kill on television. She hadn’t read the instructions and had washed the dye out too soon. Her hair had faded to orange, but she’d liked the color alongside her room’s green walls and so kept it.

Looking at how fierce Mitsuru walked with Akihiko at her side, Futaba wondered if she should’ve tried again with the red.

“Damn,” she said, staring from Akihiko’s broad shoulders to Mitsuru’s ample chest. “They’re even hotter in person than on TV.”

Akira looked them both up and down and nodded. “Very.” He nudged her with his elbow. “You should ask her for tips on how to grow your boobs before the last of puberty’s hormone surges runs out.”

“I don’t need that kind of back pain or the expense of fancy bras, thank you.”

“You sure? Remember when you tried on that catsuit and it slid off your chest ‘cause there was nothing to hold it up—“

Futaba kneed Akira in the balls.

* * *

Jaeger Academy disapproved of its recruits attacking other recruits’ genitals.

Futaba dunked the mop into the bucket of soapy water. She wrestled with the urge to knock it over. Akira wasn’t present to help talk her out of her impulses, so she spent five minutes glaring at the bucket before conceding that spilling its contents would be a stupid idea.

She pulled the mop out and wiped the floor, cursing Akira and his charm failing in the face of Sae’s hearty disapproval. Futaba would ordinarily celebrate this occasion (the guy had women and men hanging off his every word and damn well knew it) if the failure hadn’t resulted in her punishment.

Futaba wiped sweat off her forehead. When was the last time she cleaned? Sojiro had picked up for her until Akira began living with them. She and Akira were technically supposed to clean together, but he was way faster at it. Any of her attempts to help slowed his progress. It was more efficient for Akira to vacuum and dust while Futaba changed the background music on his request.

She kicked the door of the bathroom stall, and it swung open on well-oiled hinges. This was one of the cleanest bathrooms she’d ever been in. They could’ve at least put her on something that would help the war effort. Like holding a hair dryer to help the paint dry on the jaegers.

“Hello?”

Futaba jumped and spun on one foot, swinging her mop out like a spear. The bundle of coarse strings dripped in front of black slacks with a hem five centimeters too short.

She looked up. Way up.

Was blue hair a new street style trend? This was the fourth person she’d met today with blue-colored locks. They should pay more attention to Mitsuru for their fashion inspiration. Warm colors were where it was at. They pepped you up, got you ready to fight. Cool colors put you to sleep.

“Oops, sorry.” She straightened her mop. Though she’d wanted a reprieve from social interactions after the storm Akira had dragged her into, she wasn’t displeased to share this burden. Sae had taken away her headphones, and the complete silence was dull. “You got the crack of the whip too, huh?”

“It appears so,” he said, rolling his own cleaning cart into the bathroom.

“What’re you here for?”

“I had grown tired of waiting around, so I set off to find a jaeger. Somehow, I found my way to the kitchen instead. Since I was already there, I thought I might as well have a snack. Apparently, mealtimes are strictly enforced.”

“That was dumb,” she said, impressed. “As dumb as what I’m here for.” She sighed as she put on rubber gloves and pulled out a cleaning wipe. “I injured someone’s balls.”

The boy winced.

“He deserved it!”

“Anyone hurt there usually does.” He wiped the floor, over the spot she had just cleaned. “But being familiar with the sensations associated with that sort of pain, I can’t help but empathize.”

Futaba snickered. “Name’s Futaba.”

“Kitagawa Yusuke. Pleased to meet you.”

“This isn’t a interview. No need to be so formal.” She wiped a toilet seat. ”You a lawyer or something?”

“Artist. I drew that.” Yusuke pointed to the flyer hanging on the stall door.

“You did?” She tossed the wipe into the trash can and stood, tracing the outer edge of the paper with a gloved finger. It was the same flyer from her commute home, the one that convinced her to join.

Yusuke nodded. He pushed his mop back into his bucket. “The PPDC held a contest. I won 5000 yen for it,” he said, beaming like he’d announced his own exhibit hall at the Louvre.

She frowned. Like the rest of the world, the twenty-one countries making up the PPDC had cut down on extraneous spending as economies shifted to fund the war. Still, she hadn’t thought the budget cuts were  _this_  bad. “That’s not a lot.”

“On the contrary, that prize money bought me a new sketchbook. I even had money leftover for groceries.”

Futaba bit her tongue. Not everyone had a cushy software engineering job that could fund dining out daily if desired. Looking down on other people’s salaries was a shitty thing to do. Besides, it was a good poster. She’d have bought a print if she’d seen it at a con.

“It’s a good poster,” she said, vocalizing her thoughts. “Did working on it inspire you to take up arms?”

“I came here because they feed you,” said Yusuke. Futaba laughed, but she stopped abruptly when Yusuke turned to her with his head tilted and a quizzical glint in his eyes.

“You serious? That’s it?”

“They also give you a bed. With the money saved on rent and food, I can upgrade my paintbrushes to sable hair bristles.”

Futaba dropped her mop, and the handle hit the wall. “And the defense of humanity, the preservation of our countries? The revenge for people lost in the war?”

“Those weren’t my primary considerations,” he said, looking as if she’d requested him to cosplay a busty demoness in stilettos.

Futaba grabbed the mop and stormed out of the bathroom.

Spoiled little brat. So many cities destroyed when the ocean rifts first opened and humanity had no countermeasure. So much progress in technology stalled as all focus went into the jaegers and the war effort. And most horrifically, so many lives lost, good and innocent people who should have had decades more. Akira’s parents. Her mother.

Yusuke did not take the hint. He followed her out and continued jabbering despite her turned back and stony silence. 

* * *

“He never noticed I was ignoring him! Kept on blabbering about how he preferred the beef flavor of Nissin ramen to pork but the beef was five cents more expensive per ounce so he couldn’t afford it all the time!“

“You talked to someone without me there?” asked Akira, eyebrows raised in a manner that put Futaba on the defensive. The defensive of what, who knew, but she sure as hell wasn’t going to let Akira win.

“I’m not some shut-in otaku,” she huffed. “Just ‘cause I don’t like talking to people doesn’t mean I'm useless at it.”

Akira was the one who helped her grow into a person who didn’t bolt for the nearest exit when spoken to, but his ego was stuffed enough already. He didn’t need the reminder.

He stayed silent, so Futaba continued. “He was the only one there, okay!? If instant coffee is all you have for a caffeine fix, you go for that outta desperation.”

“Huh,” he said. Futaba, normally an excellent interpreter of Akiraisms, had no idea what he meant. She assumed it was negative and scowled.

“If you were there, you’d want to kick him in the balls too. The only reason I didn’t was the video cameras in the hallway. I barely saw them in time to stop myself!”

Akira tapped his chin with a finger. Futaba grabbed her wrists to stop herself from flinging her water bottle at him. 

* * *

Pilots connected with jaegers through a neural interface. Your brain’s connection drove its movements. Logically, you’d conclude that the physical exertion to become a jaeger pilot would be minimal.

“Didn’t you read the liability waiver?” asked Akira. He stood on one foot and pulled the other, stretching his thighs.

“Who does?” Futaba mimicked Akira’s movements and tipped over. She let go of her leg and stumbled forward. “How did you have time? We got three seconds to sign!”

“Gotta keep up.” He winked.

“Mitsuru has a PhD in mechanical engineering,” she said, looking glumly at the giant billboard displaying the itinerary. It included a mile run, push-ups, sit ups, and a 100 yard dash. In other words, more physical exertion than she’d done in her previous twenty-five years combined. “And Akihiko has a Master’s in criminal justice. Figured being brainy was what made them ace pilots. I didn’t expect these sort of tests.”

“Akihiko’s also an Olympic boxing gold medalist, and Mitsuru won the nationals for fencing back in college,” Akira pointed out. At Futaba’s downcast expression, he ruffled her hair. “Chin up. Training will get you better at the physical stuff. Drift ability is what counts, and that’s genetic.”

Futaba smiled, though she shook her head until Akira removed his hand. She took a swig of water, giving up her feeble attempt to follow Akira’s pre-exercise routine. With her mediocre muscle mass, stretching was as likely to cause a tear as not stretching.

“Even if you can’t drift, you could join their programming team and help keep the jaeger network running smoothly. The lead programmer said half their staff died in the recent attack, so they’ve been pulling major overtime.”

She blinked. “Where did you meet their lead programmer?”

“Near the bathroom. Her name’s Fuuka. She’s a Capricorn and likes to cook. Also invited me to try her food if I survive the culling of the newbies.”

Futaba rolled her eyes. “You and your women. If you don’t have drift ability, they can keep you around for moral boosting. Like they do with that idol.”

“I’d be damn good at it.”

* * *

Thirty seconds into the mile run, Futaba knew she would be dead last. Akira initially kept pace with her, but she made shooing motions with her hands until he sped off. He zoomed away and caught up to the front, where a blond-haired boy held the early lead. Damn Akira and his six minute mile.

Three minutes later, a spasm went through her lungs. She gasped for air and reduced her pace, but the wheezing continued. She slowed to a walk.

Futaba stared straight ahead, trying to ignore the sidelines where sharply-dressed people with clipboards observed the recruits. Her face was hot from the strain of exercise (and embarrassment, though she wasn’t in the mood to admit it). If she knew becoming a jaeger pilot would involve running, she would’ve prepared with DDR sessions.

At least she wasn’t the only one lagging. In front of her was a tall, skinny boy strolling without a single sweat stain on his clothes.

Futaba shot daggers at Yusuke’s back. Unaware of the malevolent energy behind him, his languid pace never faltered.

Still scowling, Futaba took deep breaths - was it breath in through your nose and out your mouth or the other way around? - and quickened her stride. Her aim was to sweep past him, letting him languish behind in her scorn.

Unfortunately, she was short, and Yusuke was not. She needed three steps to Yusuke’s one, and halfway through closing the distance, her legs gave out.

She crashed onto the floor with a grace well short of a galloping gazelle. Yusuke turned around. His eyes widened. He walked to her side and knelt.

“I don’t,” she said, words coming out in short gasps, “Need. Your help.”

Yusuke gestured at the mediators outside the track. They scratched at their clipboard, giving no indication of coming to rescue her or even calling for help. “Your choices are rather limited otherwise.”

“Just go…and…” Her face, which must be as red as Mitsuru’s hair, felt like a mage had cast a fireball at her. She hoped enough of her scowl remained so that others would think she was angry instead of consumed with a desire to choke herself with her hair. The resulting oxygen deprivation might cause enough memory loss to forget this whole disaster.

He grabbed her arm despite her protestations. She swore, then leaned into him to pull herself up. If he was insisting, she might as well use him like an early party member she didn’t like and would ditch as soon as the cool characters arrived.

Yusuke staggered under her weight but didn’t fall. Futaba planted her feet and tested her stability. Her legs didn’t wobble. She pushed his arm off her and marched (slowly) onwards. She should’ve stretched.

“You can go,” she said, refusing to look at Yusuke as he kept pace at her side. Nursing injured pride was better alone.

“I wasn’t running anyway.”

“Why weren’t you?” Her breathing was easier now, and her heart rate seemed to be stabilizing to levels that wouldn’t panic a physician.

“I didn’t see the point,” he said, blithe as a newborn pup. “In the remote chance we have the drift ability, they’re not going to turn us away simply because we walked a mile rather than expended energy to sprint it.”

“Exactly! The only thing worse than exercise is useless exercise.

Then Futaba remembered she didn’t like Yusuke and clamped her mouth shut. She ducked her head, though he probably wouldn’t notice what with his height being in the 90th percentile for Japanese men.

“They also wouldn’t tell me when’s the next mealtime, so I wanted to conserve my energy in case they hauled us away before feeding us.”

“I suppose guys thinking with their stomachs is an improvement over them thinking with their dicks,” she grumbled. “You should be fifty kilograms heavier with all your talk about food.”

“I wouldn’t want that. It’d be quite expensive to replace all my clothes.”

Futaba peered at Yusuke’s shirt. She had changed into a T-shirt with a brightly colored midget plumber and a comfortable pair of athletic shorts that she’d never before worn for its intended purpose. Yusuke was still in a simple button down and black slacks. They weren’t nice enough for an interview but were several tiers too formal for this.

“If you wore appropriate clothing, you’d be more inspired to run.”

“I had decided early on to proceed leisurely, so it seemed best to utilize my time more efficiently. I finished three sketches while everyone else was changing.”

“Don’t you feel gross?” she asked. She wrinkled her nose.

Yusuke shrugged. “Small price to pay for less laundry to do.”

Well, she could relate. Thanks Akira.

* * *

Futaba and Yusuke finished last, though she sped up at the last stretch so that her time was seconds better than his.

The other potential recruits rested with varying states of exhaustion. She scanned the crowd until she spotted Akira chatting with the blond guy who’d been at the front the last time she paid attention to the people up there. Futaba brightened and (carefully) rushed to him.

“Can’t believe you never tried track,” said the blond dude. “With some training, you’d have won nationals.”

“Wouldn’t want to crush other people’s lifelong dreams so easily,” said Akira, whose bright smile mirrored the other guy’s. Akira turned to Futaba as she arrived and enveloped her in a hug. She hugged back, tolerating the sweat and the smell.

“Should’ve listened when I suggested getting an exercise bike and playing games on it, eh?”

“You talk so much shit, it’s hard to keep up.”

“She’s usually a polite, respecting sort,” Akira said to the blond boy who snorted. “Don’t mind her. Her brain’s not used to the oxygen overload from this much exercise.”

Futaba threw a punch at Akira. He caught her hand.

“Who’s your friend?” he asked. He motioned at Yusuke, who was waiting in line at the water fountain.

“Not my friend,” she said. “It’s the ass I was telling you about. Did you win?”

“Third. Chie - the Trial of the Dragon girl, remember her? - got second. Ryuji here won first place.” The blond boy pointed to himself.

“Futaba,” she said, holding her hand out.

“Ryuji.” He clasped her hand and gave an enthusiastic shake that yanked her own hand above her head.

“Everyone line up!” yelled a woman in a strong, clear voice. Her nametag displayed the name Captain Niijima Makoto. Futaba hadn’t known General Sae had a sister. Or daughter? Sae didn’t look old, but her interviews dripped with cynicism. “We will proceed to the next phase for push ups.”

Futaba groaned.

* * *

Futaba was last in push ups, and sits up, and most everything else. Her high point was getting third from the bottom in the 100 meter dash.

Large electronic boards displayed the rankings in neon green letters.

Push-ups: Tatsumi Kanji, Narukami Yu, Arisato Minako…

At least they only listed the top 50. With all the bleached heads and dyed hair around, her orange hair shouldn’t stand out enough for people to take note of her abject failure.

“Did I miss the studies linking physical ability to jaeger pilot expertise?” she asked, shoulders drooping.

Akira shrugged. “Could be false causation. People who try to become pilots are probably more athletic than the average citizen to begin with. The PPDC might’ve seen correlative data and ran with it.”

Futaba sighed.

The recruits had been divided into smaller groups of fifteen. The Academy staff ushered two people at a time onto a circular platform with large, rotating metal circles surrounding it. They then strapped the two recruits into ill-fitting armor Futaba recognized as the PPDC uniform. Long cords connected the uniforms to a miniature jaeger arm.

Futaba didn’t know what the staff were looking for, but they didn’t waste time. Each pair remained on the platform for approximately ten seconds before being shooed off. Some waited around to pair with other recruits; most went to the helicopters to await departure.

Despite the speed of the process, there were so many recruits and so many potential pairing combinations that progress was slow.

Chie and an heiress of a hotel chain stepped onto the platform. Akira whispered they’d been best friends since childhood (Futaba did not question how he knew or the accuracy of the information. Akira was always golden for gossip). A prior relationship increased the minuscule chances of drift compatibility, but they weren’t necessary.

Lights flashed, and the metal arm jerked upwards.

The crowds cheered, and Futaba joined in. This was the first successful drift compatibility, and the only action they’d seen in the past hour. For all the other pairs so far, the arm had laid as dormant as a cactus in winter.

Chie hugged the other woman, an Amagi Yukiko.

As another pair stepped forward, Akira pointed out the lead programmer he’d met before, Fuuka (yet another person with blue hair). She concentrated on a multitude of computer screens, throwing up switches and typing furiously.

“Group 2, forward.”

Akira slapped Futaba on the shoulder and filed away with his group.

The twins, Minato and Minako, were drift compatible. The robotic arm swung more wildly with them than it had with Chie and Yukiko.

Akira stepped up with the American, Lisa Silverman. Nothing happened, but the officials did not send them to the helicopters.

Futaba's interest wavered, and she spent most of the second hour watching Fuuka at her computers. It was an impressive rig; she’d love a system like that to play games on.

Applause broke her concentration. She swiveled her head back to the platform, where the detective whose autograph she’d snagged and a muscular man with bleached hair were stepping off. They didn’t appear to know each other; the man glanced the detective’s way with reddened cheeks, but she didn’t notice.

The officials dismissed Group 2, and Akira returned to her side.

“Group 3, approach.”

Her heart pounded. Akira ruffled her hair. Futaba followed the rest of her group to the center.

The administrators sent the first pair to the helicopters. The second pair followed.

“Sakura Futaba and Narukami Yu.”

Futaba came forward with a man who seemed young despite his gray hair. He nodded at her, but Futaba only managed a squeak in return. Good thing the officials hadn’t given the recruits time to shower after the exercises. It made for a pungent odor, but since she was already drenched in sweat, nobody could tell she had started doing so again.

The officials finished hooking up the armor. Futaba’s heart beat louder. Fuuka flipped a switch.

…nothing.

Futaba slumped. She pointed her feet towards the group awaiting their return to Tokyo and took a step towards them before Niijima Makoto yanked her aside. The Captain pointed back to the rest of the group.

Futaba could’ve kissed the woman. Still a chance.

“Kitagawa Yusuke and Mochizuki Ryoji.”

Nothing.

Futaba couldn’t help a burst of schadenfreude. Served the grubby little artist right if he never got his sable whatever paintbrushes.

Her satisfaction tumbled as he too was ushered back to the main group. Futaba circled around the waiting recruits to stand on the opposite side from Yusuke.

She lost track of time as she paired with one recruit after another. Those parts were exciting, sure, but it was mostly waiting around watching other people. Even her body accustomed itself to the drudgery; it was no longer bothering to increase her heart rate when her name was called.

“Kitagawa Yusuke and Sakura Futaba.”

Ugh.

“Hello again,” said Yusuke as they walked forward together. Futaba refused to look at him. Would the PPDC punish her if she flicked someone off?

As the officials strapped the armor on them, she wondered what would happen after they’d finish with all the groups. The PPDC had culled the recruits’ numbers dramatically, but most of the remaining ones hadn’t found a drift-compatible partner. She supposed the groups would merge, and the process would start all over.

More waiting. Great. Even airport waiting rooms had television screens, and she could play games there. Hell, she’d settle for being able to read a book.

The officials stepped back, and Futaba looked to the ceiling. She’d hate to sound like Yusuke, but she hoped for food before another session of this. Proper food this time. The protein bars General Sanada had handed out needed a lot more sugar to be edible. Captain Goro’s pancakes had looked delicious, but he hadn’t deigned to share with the lowly recruits.

A switch clicked. Futaba’s body jolted.

The sensation was like falling in a dream. Bile rose in the back of her throat, and bright blue lights flickered in her vision. Pictures from her past flashed - her mother teaching her how to code, Sojiro making her a cup of coffee, Akira teaching her to ride a bike, her mother’s bleeding body -

The visions ended. Futaba gasped, choking in air. Through blurry eyes, she could make out the fuzzy form of a waving robotic arm.

Sound returned as the arm slammed onto the floor. She couldn’t jump - had no room to, with the heavy armor weight her down. A cacophonous roar filled her ears. From the crowd, a foggy Akira shot her a thumbs up. She raised her own hand to return the action. It shook.

She stood, breathing heavily, as two officials unbuckled the contraption. The ones to her right finished first. Yusuke strolled away with a stagger typical of seafaring folk returning to land after months away.

Futaba stared, mouth agape. Someone told her to move, but her feet were rooted to the spot.

Him? She was drift compatible with _him?_

Someone shoved her, and Futaba stumbled down the walkway.

It couldn’t be possible. Had she grown so bored she fell asleep and dreamed this all?

Fuck.

* * *

“Kurosu Jun and Suou Tatsuya, Unit 1.” said Lieutenant Takeba Yukari.

Any other day, Futaba would’ve stormed to Yukari for an autograph. The actress playing the Pink Argus in Featherman, the best show ever? Futaba should need a tranquilizer to calm her excitement.

Instead, she had her fingers crossed behind her back as Yukari listed the co-pilot assignments. Of the recruits that made the journey to the PPDC, twenty remained to hear the roll call.

“Aegis and Mochizuki Ryoji, Unit 1.”

The android, who was the first and only successful attempt for a program developing robots to replace humans as jaeger pilots, stood rigidly at attention. Ryoji sent her a charming smile. He was as flirtatious as Akira, though nowhere near as successful.

“Sakamoto Ryuji and Kurusu Akira, Unit 2.”

“Aw yeah!” Ryuji and Akira high-fived each other.

Futaba forced a smile on her face, though her heart sunk. Nothing against Ryuji - he was funny and friendly, and she didn’t begrudge his assignment to Akira as partner pilots. But Akira was one of two people she’d drifted with. Her last hope was to partner with him. Since she wasn’t, and they hadn’t sent her home…

“Kitagawa Yusuke and Sakura Futaba, Unit 2.”

She groaned. Several other recruits glanced her way.

“At least we’re on the same team,” whispered Akira. “Under Captain Niijima and Captain Goro. Should be good, learning from General Sae’s little sister.”

Futaba kicked the floor.


End file.
